Chapter 117

MACAIRE, BERTRAND; _to whom_ ALINE _with tray_; _and afterwards_ MAIDS

ALINE (_entering with tray_, _and proceeding to lay table_, _L._) My men, you are in better luck than usual. It isn’t every day you go shares in a wedding feast.

MACAIRE. A wedding? Ah, and you’re the bride.

ALINE. What makes you fancy that?

MACAIRE. Heavens, am I blind?

ALINE. Well, then, I wish I was.

MACAIRE. I take you at the word: have me.

ALINE. You will never be hanged for modesty.

MACAIRE. Modesty is for the poor: when one is rich and nobly born, ’tis but a clog. I love you. What is your name?

ALINE. Guess again, and you’ll guess wrong. (_Enter the other servants with wine baskets_.) Here, set the wine down. No, that is the old Burgundy for the wedding party. These gentlemen must put up with a different bin. (_Setting wine before_ MACAIRE _and_ BERTRAND, _who are at table_, _L._)

MACAIRE (_drinking_). Vinegar, by the supreme Jove!

BERTRAND. Sold again!

MACAIRE. Now, Bertrand, mark me. (_Before the servants he exchanges the bottle for the one in front of_ DUMONT’S _place at the head of the other table_.) Was it well done?

BERTRAND. Immense.

MACAIRE (_emptying his glass into_ BERTRAND’S). There, Bertrand, you may finish that. Ha! music?